Page 207 of Knotting the Firefighters
But it's the furnishings that make my chest tighten with emotion, and I'm too tired to fully process.
A bookshelf dominates one corner—floor-to-ceiling construction filled with volumes I recognize immediately. My books. The collection I'd accumulated over the years, carefully selected titles that represent literary preferences and personal interests.
How did they?—?
When did they?—?
The coziest reading nook I've ever witnessed occupies space beside the bookshelf—oversized cushions in complementary fabrics, throw blankets that look impossibly soft, a small side table perfect for supporting a coffee mug and currently-reading stack, lamp with adjustable brightness for optimal reading conditions.
A bed commands central position—king-size at minimum, possibly California king, with a frame that appears handcrafted from local wood. The mattress looks expensive, topped with layers of bedding in neutral tones that somehow feel both luxurious and inviting.
But it's the closet that makes tears threaten despite confusion and exhaustion.
The door stands open—revealing a walk-in space that's significantly larger than a standard bedroom closet, with custom organization systems visible inside. And hanging from rails, folded on shelves, arranged with obvious care?—
My clothes.
My vintage collection.
Every piece I'd packed from the rental, every dress and skirt and blouse and accessory that represents my authentic aesthetic rather than borrowed athletic wear or professional compromise.
But there's more—boxes stacked neatly in the corner, labels suggesting new acquisitions rather than relocated possessions. The shopping trip purchases, the wardrobe expansion, and evidence of their investment in my comfort and preferences.
My body relaxes involuntarily—the tension I hadn't consciously registered releasing as scent hits with full force.
Their scents.
All four of them, layered and blended and unmistakably present in every surface. Maple-chestnut and pine-bourbon and honey-eucalyptus and storm-petrichor, mixing with vanilla-wildflowers in a combination that makes my hindbrain purr with satisfaction.
Safe.
This space is safe.
Mine and theirs, a personal sanctuary designed specifically for?—
"Is this—" My voice breaks, emotion overwhelming verbal coordination. "Is this what I think it is?"
Aidric steps forward—nervous energy evident in posture that's unusual for someone who typically projects unshakeable confidence.
"This is your nest," he announces with formality that suggests practiced speech. "Your personal space within our shared home, designed to your preferences and needs."
How?
The question forms but doesn't quite emerge, brain struggling to reconcile timeline with evidence before me.
"How did you plan this?" I manage eventually, turning in Bear's arms to see all four of them clustered near the doorway. "When did you have time to—all of this?—"
Bear adjusts his hold, supporting me while allowing a better view of the assembled group.
"We actually started planning when you were preparing to move to the station," he admits with characteristic honesty. "Realized pretty quickly that firehouse accommodations wouldn't provide adequate nesting space for approaching heat."
Started planning.
Weeks ago.
When they barely knew one another, before she stayed at the firehouse, and way before the public announcement and line dancing competition.
Before I'd even fully acknowledged what was developing between us.
